Suddenly post-breakup blues and another poem: What should I do? Sitting here Unable to sleep Pondering, wondering Was this the right choice? Looking back I say yes But I also say no. The answer is yes. That much I know. Yet I still ask What should I do?
So I have decided to start translating some of my poems and such into Mando'a to practice using the language. I have translated all three of the Tyr-ridan prayers. Mando'a: Ja'haili Te Regonoreth'ad Haar Troan be Kyr'am Kemi Naast be Jetiise, Cyare be Vheh'riduur Alor'ika be Knorthe, Buir be Merikite Ta'raysh bal Alor'ad, Talys Ulii'ad be Cin Kaysh atin, mhi atin Kaysh kale kad'la, cuun kale kad'la Kaysh mirdala, mhi mirdala Koti Dar'manda bal aruetiise Koti jahaatane, hut'uune, bal dar'torane Naasta val yaime bal aliite Bal oritsi cuun arue Kaysh kotepi mhi, Kaysh shuku mhi Oya! Jamethiel Knorth, Solus b'Ehn Lit. English: Observe the Regonoreth Child The Face of Death Walking Destruction of Jedi, Beloved of the Earth Spouse Small Chief of Knorths, Parent of Merikits Ten and Captain, Blood-soaked Rider of White She is stubborn, we are stubborn Her knives are sharp, our knives are sharp She is clever, we are clever Defeat the soulless and the outsiders Defeat the liars, cowards, and unjust Destroy their homes and families And insult our enemies gravely She bravens us, she breaks us Hunt! Jamethiel Knorth, One of the Three Original English: Hail Regonereth-Incarnate The Face of Death as It Walks Priest's-bane, Earth Wife's Favorite Knorth Lordan, Father of Merikit Ten and Ran, Rider of Madness Keep our backs straight Our claws sharp Our minds focused Pull down the dishonored The liars and cowards and unjust Tear down their works And raise up a mocking cry Embolden us and break us The Knorth Jamethiel, One of the Three -- Mando'a: Ja'haili Te Torrigon'ad Haar Troan be Goten Vercopaani Kencyr'alor, Knorth'alor Ne'tra Alor, Gurlaanine'vod Bajuran bal cabur, Buir be Cuun Runi Tayli mhi ball kar'tayli mhi Ba'juri mhi Resol'nare Alori mhi lo Manda Bal kemi ti mhi Baar'ulu cuun shupure bal partayli mhi chaab'cuy Partayli mhi chaabur cuun arue bal cuun'ade a, jaon'ycla'ne, bajuri mhi Oya! Torisen Knorth, Solus b'Ehn Lit. English: Observe The Torrigon Child The Face of Birth Dreaming Kencyr Chief, Knorth Chief Black Chief, Gurlanins Sibling Educator and protector, Parent of our Souls Teach us the Six Acts Lead us into Manda And walk with us Heal our wounds and remind us fear exists Remind us to fear our enemies and ourselves But, most importantly, teach us Hunt! Torisen Knorth, One of the Three Original English: Hail Torrigon-Incarnate The Face of Birth as It Dreams Highlord, Knorth Lord The Black-Lord, Wolf-Friend Nurturer and guardian, Father in Spirit Hold us close and comfort us Raise our spirits Lead our souls And walk with us Heal our wounds and keep us wary Of our foes and ourselves But most of all nurture us The Knorth Torisen, One of the Three -- Mando'a: Ja'haili Te Argentiel'ad Haar Troan be Tayl Haa'tayli Ru'dar'manda jii'manda Baa'ur bal Jetii Runi'kemur bal vercopase'taylur Ashi'vod, mirjahaali mhi Tay'haali cuun tome'tayle Cuyi Te Haranov'ad Bal ba'juri mhi ibac Cuyi Te Jorbe'ad Bal ba'juri mhi ibac Oya! Kindrie Knorth, Solus b'Ehn Lit. English: Observe the Argentiel Child The Face of Preservation Seeing Once soulless, now soulfilled Soul walker and dream seer Medic and Jedi Other brother, give us peace of mind Record our memories Be the Hidden Child And teach us that Be the Reason Child And teach us that Hunt! Kindrie Knorth, One of the Three Original English: Hail Argentiel-Incarnate The Face of Preservation as It Looks The Bastard-legitimate, Soul-walker Dream-seer, Life-mender Healer and priest, cousin Sooth our souls Mend our minds Record our remembrances Be the hidden one And teach us the same Be the reasoned one And teach us the same The Knorth Kindrie, One of the Three
So given that Mando'a is a stupid space language and people might have no god damn idea how it sounds and because I need to practice saying words in it anyway I have decided to record these things. Also it's Star Wars Day. We need more Star Wars god dammit. Anyway here is: Jame Tori Kindrie Some explanation given, when there is an apostrophe following a vowel you insert a glottal stop, either just because that is how it is said or because a sound was ellided. This is why this symbol is called a beten, or sigh, in Mando'a. The beten's other functions are to link words to form compound words, to link affixes to words, or to signify ellision. At times a beten will be dropped from a word that normally has one when attaching other affixes or words, presumably for ease of reading. Hence "jao'nyc" can become "jaonyc'lane" or "jaonyla'ne". Mando'a also has long vowels for...some reason. It's never really made vitally important with the canonical lexicon but it's a feature that exists. The digraph "ay" is always pronounced like English "day". The digraph "yc" is either pronounced like English "ish" or English "ick" depending on its placement in a word. Also, generally with the small prefixes that denote tense, possession, or other features the final vowel of the prefix is dropped if there is a vowel conflict with the starting syllable of the next word. There's no example of it here but if there is a vowel conflict with the conjunction "a", the Mando'a equivalent to English "but", then a terminal "l" is added for ease of pronunciation. An example being the sentence, "Ven'cuy ni kyr'am gar, al ad ven'cuy oyaci." Which in English translates as "I will kill you, but the child will live."
I have a brusque style Harsh and awkward Full of fucks and shits and damns And varying word lengths And varying grammar too. For I know of no other way to be. Oh, I have tried Plied my trade at being Buddhist, Singing the praises of a man long dead, Glorious and great Though for reasons not like Cú Chulainn’s. And that came to failure, All of it. Absolutely all of it. With me wondering why I even tried To be anyone but me. But they’d tell me it’s a lie, That there is no me to be found, Foul or otherwise. But I’ve found it otherwise And so I cease to try. We will have a brusque style. -- What Dhamma is there in a dishonest man? Let the Bhikkhu swear and shout, seeking the best words to speak. They are, after all, Entirely meaningless Those words, no matter how foul.
She loves Blood and gore Death and war But not needlessly so A true god of war Both public and private Mental and physical Waging wars across Us all In you and me And in the world Irrigating the fields With Blood So Pure and clean And we malign her Cursing her name and form A mad dog a battle crazed whore And still she stands Upon the rock Watching us Trying us Judge, jury, and executioner The Divine Drill Sergeant Who remakes us After she breaks us She delights in Peace and plenty And strength of many
You have a sword That can cut through anything Be it wood or steel. You cleave through all alike With dragon infused might And fierce shouts and greater hate, Felling foes upon foes. But you can’t cut through mind To part the fog With your gleaming blade. Nor through your limbs, Detestable metal that they are Like the sword you wield. Nor can you slice through grief, Still hot at your heels Baying for the blood of a brother, Or better yet your own. So you have a sword, But for what purpose? He has a sword Not of form or might But of dauntless skill alone, Honed by the brightest wisdom, Pearling at the crown of his head Like a roaring flame. He wields that sword with the grace Of the monkey troop’s jester king And slices straight through All threat and woe, Breaking even mind in two neat halves. There sits this man All made of metal On a throne of lotuses And around him you see bowing The many-armed gods of Sumeru Not in obedience But in awe filled respect. Yet he doesn’t guard it greedily, Storing it away as a secret Only to be divulged rarely To the great and the many rich. No, he holds out his hand to you Then two, then ten And asks you to join him In simplest zazen. Not with judgment or fear Or hatred or scorn, But with a deep love Undirected and extended to all But now pulling you up As a friend worth meeting And a pupil worth teaching. You sit down Next to this metal monk And listen to his dharma talks And hear his jokes and his japes And hearken to his advice That all is without form And that mind can be reigned in Without effort or struggle. But he cannot slice through the fog for you, Freeing you from the bonds Of these never-ending rounds. But he can teach you To wield your own blade With such lion-like might And fearlessly face the fogs Which elude the many To find what lays past The Dread Prince’s illusion. And so you have a sword Which grows sharper day by day As you swing in practice Faithfully week by week. And though it’s not so glorious yet As that blade of his, Your mighty metal master, You feel the storms begin to relent And you slip on past Your old torments. Then one day you awake To the barest glimpse of it, The profoundest truth Beyond the mundane and transmundane And all from grains of rice Which weren’t to your liking. On that day your blade grew sharper And your devotion greater, So you went and bowed down In sets of three To the mad metal monk Who saved you from that greatest foe: Your very own self.
Wrote a poem for Manannán this Midsummer. The rains have fallen Day by day. Twenty minute showers That come and go Quick as can be, As the sun shines High up in the blue sky. But today has been dark When the rains came. All throughout the day There were Lingering light drizzles And pouring torrents, Which flooded the streets And darkened the skies. He visits this state With each and every day, But on this midsummer He threw a parade When he came to collect Our most humble rent That we pay For him. For his rains.
MORE POEMS. I guess. One of which makes me giddy because it is the first divinatory poem I've managed. peoms There are skies in you Words that are you But also not you And they are skies -- Let the games begin. Not a competition But an exhibition Of games played fast, Run with expertise And glitches upon glitches. A show of might And knowledge too, And for a good cause The common saying goes, To save lives Through MSF. So we stand again In awe filed patience And so I ask For you to oversee them, You, The King of Games Lugh the Longhanded. -- There is a fuzziness In my head Which is warm and soft And engulfs me entirely, And leaves me wondering Can I walk, can I swim? Can I grab this glass? But we’ve not yet gone too far To where the world sways As a blurry mess Of shapes and sounds, Indistinct and only halfway grasped, That I can’t navigate, Not really. A world where I can only Stumble and fumble Until at last I drop Down to my knees And cry in fear Of what we’ve come to. A lack of sensation But still seeing. A lack of sense But still thinking. But I’m not there yet, And there is simply A warmth And a fuzziness In my head.
Two more poems. The first is about the bridge skip of Nier: Automata speedruns. It's one of the hardest tricks in the run and one of the first you need to learn. Fun and satisfying to do though. The second meanwhile is a horrible portion of a song that won't leave my fucking head. More may be added to it over time. Once, twice, then thrice And the skip is not down. One ten, two tens, and three A whole half hour And still the skip is not made. Jump, light, then heavy But not too fast. Jump again but jump quick Because while less height is bad No light is even worse. You’ve gotten to this, But we’re still not done, You must repeat it Once more, just once. But then we introduce One new bit, The dastardly plunge, That is so often a dash Which dashes your hopes And hurts your hands. An hour ticks by And you get close Again and again, As your frustration flares Again and again Until at last There you are Up on top of that bridge Looking down. Glorious, grand, almost euphoric A feeling so freeing That you go and dash Right off the ledge And so you’re back at it Once, twice, and thrice And still the skip is not down. -- I wish I were the washerwoman Working on the ford Singing of the deaths Of many men and more. You think yourselves all safe But little do you know That I’m right there The washerwoman Working on the ford.
A Kencyrath rosc poem to celebrate the coming eighth book and the fact that our favorite farseeing boy is about to fuck up something fierce probably. I see a door Deadbolt slammed shut Securing my mind Mind melted by fear Ferocious howling Hearkening the hand Hand grips tensely Terse curses cried Curse upon you You, my sister Sinfully dancing Dancing on dunes Deep and far Falling over head Heels stamping down Dangerous accusations made Moving the hand Handle deadly cold Click ringing out Ousting the dance Damning myself I see a door
Lots of poems now. Some from Lughnasad this year, some of a new project of mine, and one for the end of Gates of Tagmeth. POEMS. The harvest day has come and with it more rain in the early hours of morning, but not an actual harvest. At least not with fruits and grains. Instead we’ve a harvest of work, carried out faithfully over a year and more. A harvest of relationships built up day by day. Perhaps not backbreaking like what killed her the woman of the day, Tailtiu, but it fills the brow with swear and the heart with feeling. It brings with it results which can be tallied, some, and others not so much. Ones which we can heap together and look at proudly and say yes, we’ve done it, yes, we’ve been diligent. It’s a harvest of hard works and feelings. – She isn’t named much. Not by the histories or by us, but the day’s games bear her name and the honor is hers alone. For good reason. After all it was she who went out picking field after field gathering crop after crop till the work was done and Ireland had food for a feast and for a year to come. The first true harvest of the Tuatha Dé after Lugh had secured the secrets from that bastard Bres. That was her fatal work for which her foster-son stood up and named a day for her eternal honor. There’ll be food and games, contracts and matchmakings. All will gather up and share their works and they’ll honor her who made it possible, the first to fall for it. It’ll be a day worthy of the woman who brought wealth to the land and the woman who raised him, that king of all and hero bar none. A foster-son so loyal that he named today, this day right now, for the one now so little named. Tailtiu. – The rain came down fast and hard and then it was gone. That’s what it does here. The stuff never lingers. Not as a light drizzle playing a constant, calming pat-pat-pat. Not as a terrifying torrent filling the streets with roaring rages of water. No. The rain just came and it went because that’s how it is here. But it came and went on a lucky day for rain. It’ll be a good year because I’ll make it one. – God it’s been what? Three now? Just one after the other bam-bam-bam. There’s a pile of words! And here’s yet another. And I’m not entirely pleased but when am I ever? When it hits me hard like a slap to the face burning me up inside and out. Like now maybe. There’s a warmth in my head, a fire in my heart, that weird lightness of breath. It’s almost a frenzy filling me with a rage for battle, just a fight even if I’m a lightweight myself. But it’s there that rage and with it the frenzied speech like a screaming rant a hundred ravens all crying out fury, fury, death, death and that’s the truth of it isn’t it? Even on the day of harvest that’s the truth and always will be, but that’s not so bad, not really. God does it feel bad though leaving me awake at night with tears in my eyes and a sour, silver feeling in my heart. But here we are now, a day of harvest and death. The death which bore the harvest really. The death of Tailtiu whose name I can’t properly sing of, only offering up puny words and not a fiery rambling like this, the awkward torrent of word after word after word which will not end because they are not yet done. Not with me and not with us and we’re not done with them. We’ve got business building up empires not literal but empires nonetheless and let the literal ones fall by our hands and ours alone because they might inspire but it’s us who act and there it goes. The fire’s burnt out quick and a word had to be pondered. Damn. -- Stately strikes of strong men break the barrier. A marvelous feat maybe, but it damns us all. -- The Highlord hides in the halls a cowering child. Yet he sings of his sister, the savior, while maligning her. Will it ever cease? The filial fighting? Not in nine-hundred years, says the sorrowing son. -- A sonic boom sounds blaringly, shaking our souls. He’s far ahead, a blue blur, seeking to save The imprisoned animals amplified by baleful machinery Concocted by the crafty crook evil Ivo Robotnik. He hops here, then there and crushes a crazed creation Beneath his feet shod in sheer shining red and white. We watch him race and race, and cheer on our champion Who fights for freedom with boundless spirit bearing beauty And a pride to prop up all in the face of fury. -- William wields a wild blade releasing lethal lightning That slows to a slog bastards born of hate. The deadly demon yokai who fill with fear brave men Come to know the pain of nerves never rested And wounds welling up with wretched rot and rank. Such is the peerless power of righteous Raikiri and Raiken. -- I’m not your son That’s what you said And it’s true. For all my wanting and worrying, I’m not your son And I’m left freer for that. What did I buy from you, My father? Nothing but broken bones And broken hopes. The death of peace of mind And the deaths of so, so many. The lives of friends lost For a chance at freedom Which you stole away As you do all. Funny thing that. How you warned me of her With cries and calls of treachery. “She’ll steal from you, she’ll break you,” Again and again And with that tired adage “Destruction begins with love,” Over and over. But you’re the one that stole, From me and everyone else. The one who broke and crushed Without purpose And laid me out As a destroyed toy For all the world to see, And to marvel and mock at. That was you, dear Father Who is not my father Any longer. That was you, The sad shade of a man Pale and pathetic and pleading For destruction at my hands. Begging for release, For freedom And I gave it to you. I tore you down Because I am not you. Not the man who lashes out Forcing his abuses upon others And without a hint of guilt. I sent you out Because I am not you As a path lays ahead of me With a family on it, And love too.
Wrote a poem about Flidais because I've been thinking about her lately. Flidais for the curious being a possible Irish goddess whose lore deals almost exclusively with cows and milking. However due to a medieval etymology of her name that isn't terribly likely she's since ended up with a heavy association with the wilds and deer. Flidais of the running deer And the roaring green. Flidais of the symphony Of many crawling things. Flidais of the thick air That sticks summer sweet. Is it you that I hear As I watch in wonder At a running doe Duck into the woods And out of sight? Is if you who fills Me with a want for more Even as my limbs ache And my head pounds for rest? Is it you who makes me look With awe and glee At the many, many mushrooms, Puffballs and morels and more, Though I don’t know your world? Or is it merely for my want of you That my heart seems to sing? What Georgia is I do not know, But I wonder if it’s you.
The longest of my experiments yet. This time the subject being one of my worst case scenarios for what could have happened in Tagmeth. Thank the gods it didn't, though things did get pretty terrible and in ways I hadn't thought of. The bashful boy walks barefoot down the hateful hall of His sinister sire with secrecy. He aims to air out Grievances grievous and great before the loathsome lord, But prays piteously for silence, that his ascent is not ascertained. Too late! The door booms, bearings bulging and cries calling out lies, Insults and assaults awful and heard many morns ago. This is the father’s rage fierce and insurmountable. So the hand hangs haltingly, faltering fearfully for the fits of Hell heard. Though it would not, were it not for the wrathful revenge Of the binding bane of blood and guilt grabbing at the ankles Pulling the poor boy down into a bottomless pit pealing with the broken Screams and shouts of the mad made mad by the monster Lurking in his head here, right now noxious nagging. Still the fingers feel the handle cold on clammy hands And trembling tortuously they turn the door of the damned’s handle. The bastard door does not budge-- the bolt is surely still shot! And the scrabbling and screeching begins with a renewed rage “Let me out, odious oaf!”, Father calls “Loss is love’s only promise!” The boy buckles, falling flat. This awful act breaks him again As all the times before, the secret shame of the Highlord. Clawing in a craze at crumbling stones he searches for stalwart strength To complete the demanded deed of his greedy God’s gamble, But now it gnaws newborn melting his mind With the ferocity of fitful fear and guilt gangrenous. For a moment the maddening malefactions ring rudely true. A cravenous coward who crawled out and away unallowed. That is he, the false Highlord. He stands up stock still shaky shades of breath shuddering As he gathers gumption needed now for absolution For his fateful failure to hold up honor however horrid. It is still honor and honor demands its dues. So the bolt is banged back and the handle hurriedly turned So the death door is opened once and for all. He peers into the portal poor boy begging to be brought to justice For crimes cruel and hideous -- and there! Looming long the loathsome shade Of father furious falls upon him and he is a child chilled to the bone. Now his knees fail him dreading the damnation coming. But what is a wretch to do at the sight of that sin-filled scowl Save to sacrifice oneself for friends failed far past To free them from the hell dealt by devilish desires, And so the shackles savagely shearing one’s mind to mush May be broken off by bearing the pitiless patriarch’s punishment. A son is but the father’s, and a son is but their father.
Wrote some haiku while at work and fucking miserable: 1:30 coming But time stretches on longer. Favor for a friend. -- Numberless watchface. Press the face! Birth of numbers. Time isn’t right though. -- Exhaustion sets in. A perfect 4:44. The soul is dead now. -- A tree, resolute. Flash of red! A robin there. Flidais’ glory. -- Collecting the words. Cursed song breaks concentration. Our eternal curse. -- The itching lingers. Music delights the senses, But god my feet ache. -- The blessed rage is back. Week without the roaring waves. Composition begins. -- Cold store not yet cold. A woman walks by the front. Still the clock ticks on. -- The bright, low humming. A clattering at the food court. Opening calls us. Also a poem from a while ago that I wrote. During the week long hell of oh gods I am gonna die: And the Void comes, A yawning mass That sing sickly lies -- or are they truths? -- Of the coming nothing Which will pull you down And never let go. But the Light comes, A resplendent sign Of the Lord of All, Skills and men, Who sings of life, Everlasting and resplendent, And will never let go.
Wrote a Star Wars poem about Darman Skirata: I see a battlefield Dusty disasters piled up Overseen by Darkness Demon puppeting all Armies of men Made all the same Submitting to commands Commands over radio Roaring engines Engulfing flames Fear and desperation. I see it A man alone All his friends dead Dear brothers crushed Cruel fates more await Among multitudes in chaos City planet crumbling Cursed spectre shrouding all Obscuring of truth Thrusting down freedom Flames of Empire Extinguishing many flames. I see it The man together Tired and worn Warred with family Father’s arms open Opening eyes - a son Soul full of hope Hope to struggle Struggle to live Live to fight. I see a battlefield Dusty disasters piled up.
Some more poems. First one's a personal one. The other two are a pair of Kencyrath Star Wars AU poems. I grow so irate When the going gets tough But here we are At the other side now With a sack of potatoes But he grows irate too -- Pick up the saber After the night terror Or you would If you could But you can’t because she has it. You picked up the saber After the question There was an order But you’re out of order Because she’s standing right there. You brought down the saber After the challenge You couldn’t swing it right You wouldn’t swing it right Because she’s right all along. You threw down the saber After the question Which you should’ve answered Which you didn’t But it didn’t matter to you. She picked up the saber After your silence She was furious You were confused Because you didn’t kill her. Did she want you to try? -- The answer, dear Brother, lays in your lack of an answer. A question was posed, again and again, only to be brushed off again and again. Brushed off like me and uj and even our father. You insisted, dear Brother, on raising your saber though you couldn’t bear to swing it. So I asked once more what it was you wanted. Why do you dog me, only to push me away? Why do you tug at me, only to shout me down? There wasn’t an answer, dear Brother, just waffling and swings not given heart or meaning. Not even a declaration of your intention to stick with their Order. You couldn’t give me that kindness. You can’t give me any it seems. So I took your sword, so I’ll keep your sword until you can pry it from my hands or pry open that mouth.
Divinatory poem for Samhain: I see a cup Half full, half empty Cracked Bursting at the seams Spilling out, leaking out Rumbling waterfall Staining the floor Stagnant stain Staying. I see a cup Whole, round Warmth exuded Steam stretching up Filled to the brim But not leaking Though spilt still Without a stain But a rag. I see a cup Handed off One pair to another Hands among hands Sharing warmth Taking in warmth Deep inside Off the floor I see a cup
Sure let's update the writing thread with my longest poem yes. It's porn. Namely of Zero/Fiethsing from Force of Will. Behold its length.
